


you don't want zero problems, big fella!

by MariposaenArullo



Category: Basketball RPF
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Homophobic Language, M/M, Masturbation, Sexual Tension, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-18
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2018-07-15 18:28:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7233805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MariposaenArullo/pseuds/MariposaenArullo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The whole goddamn game feels like three hours of really good head. Lebron might need to question why good basketball always makes him think about sex. But that’s for another time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Game 6 is a fucking dream come true. Lebron doesn’t need to hear his stats to know that, doesn't need to know Kyrie’s either, doesn’t need to hear about Tristan or Jefferson or any guy on the team. He feels it in his bones: it’s a dream on top of the dream that was game 5, and it starts out just as hot and ends decisively, satisfyingly, 115 points later. 

The whole goddamn game feels like three hours of really good head. Lebron might need to question why good basketball always makes him think about sex. But that’s for another time.

It’s two a.m. and most of the Cavs are in J.R.’s room. Champagne and harder shit is flowing every which way. Lue stopped by half an hour ago to warn them about fuckin’ up their brains before Sunday, but most of the guys are old enough to know not to overdo it. 

Lebron isn't drinking tonight. He’s happy just to sit in the corner on the armchair and watch a replay of the game with everyone, smiling whenever they start crowing and yelling at the best moments. Lebron’s happy, but he feels tiredness sneaking up, thirty-one year old bones demanding rest. Thoughts of Sunday crowding out peace. 

“Announcers fuckin’ love you, man,” Kyrie tells him from the couch, after an excited ‘James, drives, makes the layup!’ blares from the screen. Lebron grins gamely, gets up and pushes Kyrie’s head around. 

“They think I’m aight,” he says. Pauses, and watches Curry, small on the shitty hotel screen, push the ball out of Kyrie’s hands from behind and grab it for the steal. Watches frustration write itself on his face when he hears the whistle. That was foul five. Lebron, oddly, doesn’t want to see six. He isn’t excited to see Curry throw his mouthguard into the fucking crowd like a stupid rookie. “I’m gonna split,” he says. 

J.R. looks up from the minibar. “Adios,” he slurs. 

The rest of them, his guys, say goodbye. Lebron looks down at his team. Feels that non-alcoholic buzz of content. Feels it, and then leaves, with a warning not to fuck up their brain cells too much. 

His room’s down the hall, but he pauses before sliding the key card in. Recognizes the restlessness that thrums in his veins, that he knows from experience won’t let him get any sleep. 

Practice room it is.

Lebron knows it’ll be open. Good news for guys like him who can’t sleep even after running themselves into exhaustion. He takes the stairs down to the ground floor of the hotel, ambles across the cement floor toward the gym. He feels his fingers twitch, imagines the feeling of a ball in his hands and all that that feeling conjures up. 

Basketball is fucked up, Lebron’s realized. You gotta know when to be aggressive, when you need to elbow a guy out of your way and drive to the basket, and when you need to be delicate, careful, watchful. One instant Lebron’s shoving Curry to the ground and dunking, the next he’s gotta stand perfectly still, let loose a three pointer that’ll bounce off the rim if he doesn’t aim just right. It ain’t easy. Forty-one points of his sweat and blood and want in that arena. And yeah, a whole lotta goddamn talent, too.

It’s fucked up. 

He’s almost to the door of the practice room, has just pulled out his key card, when he hears a thud. 

Hearing a thud in an empty hallway at two in the morning never means anything good. Lebron really wants to ignore it, wants to get inside the gym and shoot until his body screams for sleep. But instead he turns around and walks over to the supply closet back to his left and considers the plain door, employees only written in black letters across its front. Probably just a box falling or some shit.

He’s about to shake it off and turn away when he hears the same thud, sees the door tremble. Hears a high-pitched sound from inside, like an injured animal, and that’s fuckin’ it. Lebron grabs the handle and pulls it open. 

Soon as he swings the door open he gets an armful of Steph Curry, who falls face forward into him with an oof. 

Lebron, for once, goes down with Curry on top of him, thoughts scrambled by shock. He's about to ask what the fuck Curry’s doing locking himself in a supply closet, what kind of idiot does that shit, when Lebron hears a soft, “Oh, shit.”

He looks up and sees Klay Thompson with pants around his ankles, hard dick leaking against his thighs. Thompson makes eye contact with him for a quick second and then starts pulling his jeans up, cursing. 

“Steph, get the fuck up,” Klay hisses, once he gets his zipper up. 

Jesus fuckin’ Christ. Lebron can’t process things as fast as he’d like, doesn’t know if he wants to process this, because he just got an eyeful of Thompson’s dick, motherfucking - 

Lebron very carefully does not look at Curry’s bare ass as the guy scrambles back. Doesn’t look at anything in particular, because what the fuck. What the hell did he just see, and why the fuck did he ever think it was a good idea to open that fuckin’ door -

When they’re both off the ground Lebron dares a glance at Curry. Curry’s face is flushed, redder than Lebron’s ever seen it. He looks at Lebron for an instant, a hot flash of blue-green eyes, and then ducks his head. 

They stand there like three fucking stooges until Lebron realizes he should say something. 

“I didn’t see nothing,” he declares. Puts his hands up and tries to sound blase. “I’m gonna, just. Go.” He doesn’t stop to see what Thompson or Curry do, just fucking books it away. 

He fumbles the fucking key card and then he’s in the gym, shoes squeaking on the shiny floor, steps echoing. He moves to the side and leans back on the wall, looks at the ceiling. Tries to breathe.

It’s not like Lebron is homophobic, man, fuck that shit, love is love and sex is sex in his mind. He’s known a lot of guys who have sex with other guys and don’t call themselves gay, don’t feel like they need to. They still keep it mostly secret, because it's not okay, where he grew up, in the league either, but Lebron’s cool with it. 

He’s just - surprised. Really fuckin’ surprised, that Curry and Thompson are some kind of fuckbuddies. Not Lebron’s business. But he remembers the sound he heard, before opening the door. That high pitched moan he’d thought was pain. The few seconds when the hot weight of the guy was splayed out on top of Lebron. 

Curry likes dick up his ass. Lebron knows that now. But it doesn’t change anything. 

He tells himself that and takes a deep breath. But before he can get his head clear and find a ball, the door opens beside him, someone comes in. Someone with tightly shorn brown hair and a slightly-hunched, youthful walk. 

It’s Curry. Lebron is incredibly, stupidly fucked.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANKS FOR YOUR COMMENTS!!!! I love reading them. and thanks for the kudos! This took me longer than expected, so hopefully next chapter will be a tad quicker. and with a great deal more UST. 
> 
> remember, this is meant to take place the night after game 6. I couldn't get my shit together in time to update before sunday but next chapter will be set post sunday. :)

Standing outside the door, Steph can’t see anything inside the gym but the long, unbroken flatness of wood laminate floor. Lebron’s gotta be there, though. He made a fuckin’ _beeline_ straight for it, after Steph had - 

Nah. He ain’t gonna think about that now, not when he needs to focus on finding Lebron. On fixing the situation him and Klay have fucked themselves into. He’d left Klay back in front of that stupid closet, ignored his protests to “just leave it, bro”, told him he’d take care of it. Easier said than done. 

He swipes his room key and steps onto the floor. Hears a sharp intake of breath to his left, the kind you’d make after a kick in the ribs, and follows the sound with his eyes. 

Gotcha. The King is standing with his back to the wall. He watches Steph, dark eyes unreadable, and all of the words Steph had thought up on the way here just fucking _vanish._

He stands there like a moron until Lebron has enough of it, walks over to a cart leaning against the wall and drags it over in front of the basket. He picks up a ball and Steph’s eyes lock onto his hands, because fuck if the guy can’t palm a fucking basketball, make it look tiny cradled in one hand. Lebron dribbles carefully, then sinks a beautiful three-pointer that barely even swishes through the basket. 

He’s ignoring Steph like he’s an ant that’ll crawl off if he gives it enough time. 

Lebron lines up another shot and is about to let it off when Steph says, stupidly: “Klay doesn’t know how to use his dick.”

Air ball. Lebron jerked at the last moment, ruined his release. Maybe he forgot Steph was there. Steph feels a sharp stab of pleasure, then brushes it off. 

Lebron’s turned and Steph knows a look that says _get the fuck out_ when he sees one. He steels himself against it, walks over and takes a ball from the cart. The feeling of the ball grounds him, and he dribbles once, twice, eases some of the fear that’s been squeezing his lungs since he fell off Klay’s dick onto Lebron James. 

“We gonna have a problem, man?” he asks. 

Lebron stops glaring and moves to take another ball from the cart; dribbles slowly, methodically.   
“What kind of problem we talking?” he asks the floor. 

“I just wanna know if your guys are gonna be calling me or Klay a faggot princess on Sunday,” Steph says, braver than he feels. “Gotta get my mind ready for that.”

“I don’t fuck with that homophobic shit,” Lebron shoots back. He goes back to dribbling. “Nobody’d believe me anyway.”

Steph’s voice is like acid. “Right, ‘cause nobody’d believe the two time MVP likes to take it up the ass.”

Another fuckin’ stare, and Steph hates that it takes all he has to stare back, to meet those eyes trained solely on him. Then Lebron flicks his eyes down to the ball still in Steph’s hands. “You gonna do something with that or what?”

Steph lets out a long breath. Pauses for a while, and then steps up to the three line. He dribbles between his legs, conscious of Lebron’s gaze in a way that he never is during a game. He takes a three pointer and misses; Lebron makes his. They shoot a couple more and then:

“Why'd you do that shit tonight?” Lebron asks. 

“What shit?” 

“With your mouthguard,” Lebron clarifies. He looks down as he dribbles. “Blow up like that.”

Steph relaxes, takes and makes a shot. “Those last two fouls were clean, dude. On you and Irving. It was just the stupid refs made me mad as hell...” He trails off and realizes he sounds like a fucking kid, whining about the refs. He feels his face get red as Lebron gives him an incredulous look. 

“Stupid refs, huh.” Lebron has a hint of a smile. “They were smart enough not to fall for it when you were stickin’ your legs out trying to draw the foul, fallin’ all over yourself when you were taking shots.”

“You wanna complain about that?” Steph asks, kind of amazed, kind of pissed. He gets his dick on this guy and he wants to complain about fouls? “That’s fucking basketball.”

Lebron’s unreadable again, and then: “Guard me,” he says. 

Steph gapes at him till he jerks his head, impatient. “Come on, man.”

Standing face to face, Steph is able to take in the size of the guy, the skill hidden in his hands, the brute force in his body, unhurried in a way that feels strange and surreal outside a game. 

“You just gonna stand there?”

For the thousandth time Steph wishes his skin didn't make his embarrassment so obvious. He gets defensive, though, crouches, turns his gaze watchful. 

Lebron surges forward and elbows him, hard enough that Steph might fall in a game to get the foul. He grits his teeth and doesn't go down. It doesn't stop Lebron from making an easy layup, no Andre there to block. Not for the first time Steph feels twinge of anger, helplessness because his size is so goddamn useless against Lebron. 

He grabs the rebound. Lebron backs up to where they started, and Steph sees his open invitation. So Steph passes the ball and gets in place. 

This time he keeps up better, but no matter how high he jumps he can't fucking block Lebron’s shot. He grabs the rebound and can't keep a scowl off his face, whips back a chest pass to Lebron more angrily than he means. 

“That's why I gotta do that shit, man,” he snaps. “I can't do everything you can, can’t get above you, sure as hell can’t block you. So sometimes I gotta draw the foul. It's not always pretty shit.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Lebron is peeved, arms crossed, frowning. It’s a really fucking bad idea for Steph to make him angry, not when he could fuck him and Klay over in a second, but Steph can’t bring himself to care right now. “You’re telling me how hard it is to be the two time MVP?” Lebron demands. 

“I think,” Steph grinds out, “that the view from up there is a lot different from the one down here.” 

“Well, I think you’re a whiny dumbass with a pretty face who got lucky with a few three pointers, and is too stupid to understand the world’s love ain’t for forever.” Lebron gives him a dismissive once over. “MVP my ass.”

“You,” Steph starts, and then stops, because he has nothing to say to that. ‘Cept, yeah, maybe, because he earned all that adoration but maybe he got a little too used to being praised. Doesn’t mean he isn’t a good player. He makes plays and assists and even layups, sometimes. He’s not just three pointers, not just amazing against all odds shots, not some airhead who doesn’t - “Fuck you,” he says. He means to make it harsh, but it comes out just tired. 

Lebron tilts his head back and considers Steph, eyes too complicated for Steph to figure the fuck out. He looks like he might say something, but Steph’s done. So fucking done. His brain buzzes from exhaustion. 

"See you Sunday," Steph says, and leaves Lebron to pick up all his loose balls. Walks back to his room. Feels a ball of dread sink deep in his stomach at the thought of seeing him again.


	3. Chapter 3

Game 7 happens.

It starts out fantastic, which is - well. Steph misses a few shots, makes a few, but the vibe is _good_ , it looks like the Cavs are not gonna be enough this time. Looks like that, and then the second half gets tight. And then it’s down to a tie, minutes to go. 

And Kyrie Irving sinks his shot.

Steph feels his stomach fall into his toes when he sees the swish. His heart thuds, heavy, and time slows. All of fifty fucking seconds left. Steph’s heart beats once for every tick. He takes a stupid desperate shot as the clock goes down, prays to every god there is to make it _go the fuck in_ , but. It doesn’t. 

They lose game 7.

Steph’s crucified by the silence of the fans. He feels their collective open-mouthed despair swallow him up. Feels the accusation of every turnover, every messy play, every missed rebound. 

After the buzzer his head goes blissfully blank. He senses, dimly, Cleveland celebrating. Lebron’s hidden by a mob of reporters. 

His team walks off, slump-shouldered, disbelieving. Steph follows them like he’s in a trance. They gather around Kerr, and Steph hears his words like he’s in a dream. Kerr knows none of them wanna hear shit from anybody right now, lets them go after a brief speech.

Steph talks to Kyrie for a couple minutes. Tells him he had a great game and doesn’t feel anything at all.

When Kyrie’s gone he can tell Klay wants to talk, wants to fuck, probably, but Steph shakes his head. He’s gotta be alone. He walks out the arena, keeps his expression somber for all the photos. Keeps it frozen like that while a couple guards take him back to the hotel. He tells them thanks, and then -

Alone. Thank the fuckin’ Lord.

He gets into his room and stares at the floor for what could be ten seconds or ten minutes. 

He wants to say they didn’t win because they didn’t want it enough. He wants to tell himself he didn’t win because he didn’t want it, didn’t need it deep in his bones like Cleveland did, driven by their fifty year drought. He wants to tell himself he was lazy, he got complacent, he didn’t _believe_.

The alternative, though, that’s what he doesn’t want to hear. What makes him so afraid he can’t sleep for it, sometimes. 

Steph Curry is just a fluke. He’s overblown. He’s overrated. He got - 

\- _lucky_ , his mind supplies. Lebron’s words, bitten out angrily, two nights that feel like a lifetime ago. 

Well, he’s gonna find out damn soon that the world’s love ain’t loyal. He doesn’t blame anyone for it, though, no matter what Lebron thinks. He’s not mad. 

He fucked up these finals and he’s got nobody to blame but himself. 

A buzz next to him on the bed tells him he’s getting a call, and he looks over before he can stop himself. It’s Klay. Steph scowls and lets it go to voicemail.

It's time for a drink.

The minibar’s got a selection of good vodka but only a few tiny bottles. Steph drinks all of ‘em. Gets himself situated on his bed and toggles through the different adult films the on-demand menu has to offer. Damage control has begun. 

He’s gonna fuck himself till he’s too tired to stay awake. And then he’s gonna wake up and go home to the first break he’s had in a long time. 

Two hours later he’s come twice, carefully focused only on the two guys fucking each other onscreen. He’s nothing if not efficient. 

Of course, Steph’s done this before. You gotta have a routine when your profession is half win half lose. Steph’s lose routine involves getting drunk and jacking off to people he hopes he’ll never meet. And not thinking about a damn thing in the process other than the slick of skin on skin, pure physical pleasure pulsing through his body. 

It works well for the two hours, and he’s still kind of buzzed from the vodka, which is great. He debates seeing if he can order more from room service but he still flinches at the thought of interacting with human beings, so. No to that plan.

He settles down to round three, starts stroking himself lazily. Bites his bottom lip and imagines he’s the one getting fucked on the hood of a truck by some nameless ripped asshole who wears a bandana unironically. His dick fills, slowly, sits at half mast while he jumps up and grabs the free tube of body lotion from the bathroom. He slicks two fingers and fits them into his ass. He can’t stop a moan at the feeling, even though two fingers isn’t nearly what he wants. Needs. 

It’s better than nothing, but his satisfaction sours when he hears a knock on the door. 

Fucking Klay. Steph’s stomach clenches and he feels empty when he takes his fingers out. He wipes his hand with a tissue before pulling up his shorts and stomping over to the door. 

The knock comes again. At least he’s not fuckin’ banging on the door. That means he’s not completely drunk outta his mind. Silver lining. 

“I swear to fucking Jesus, Klay,” Steph says, opening the door. “You better not be here to -”

He doesn’t finish the threat, because. It’s not Klay. 

Lebron’s eyes land on him as soon as he pulls the door open. His gaze is physical, powerful, strikes the words out of Steph’s damn mouth. 

In the next moment Lebron’s gaze shifts south, and Steph flushes. He didn’t put on a shirt because he thought it was just fuckin’ Klay. Lebron looks at his chest for a split second and then looks away, blinks. 

Steph would think he was _shy_ but Lebron’s seen uncountable bare chests in his life and there’s no reason Steph’s would faze him. No, Steph thinks, crosses his arms tightly across his torso, it’s more likely that Lebron’s afraid the predatory fag is gonna jump on his dick at a moment’s notice.

He clears his throat. “What the fuck you doin’ here, man?” he asks, makes sure his voice is slow, controlled. 

Lebron brings a hand up and slides it over his scalp, holds the back of his neck. The gesture is self-conscious, and utterly unlike the power Steph’s used to seeing from him. Lebron sways minutely, pulls his hand off his neck to balance on the door frame.

And then Steph realizes Lebron’s absolutely smashed. 

“I brought this,” Lebron says into the sudden silence. The hand that’s not on the door comes up and Steph sees that he’s got a liter of Absolut clutched in his fingers. Almost half full. 

Steph wavers for thirty seconds in which he weighs the absolutely fucking insane choice he has between maintaining his solitude and getting wasted. Getting wasted with Lebron James. The guy who just broke a five-decade curse and brought his team back from a 3-1 deficit for the first time in history. _That_ guy is outside Steph’s door right now, barely able to stand, offering Steph more alcohol than he can take. 

And he wants it. 

So. 

He could say, “that doesn’t answer my question.” He could slam the door. But he’s pretty sure Lebron expects that. And Steph, weirdly enough, wants to surprise him. Wants, underneath that, to find out why the fuck he’s here in the first place, even if it kills him. 

So. 

“It’s a free country,” he says. Leaves the door wide open and walks back into the room. 

He hears Lebron suck in a quick breath and come in behind him, close the door with a soft click that sounds way too loud in the sudden quiet. 

Steph starts to think he’s made a huge mistake.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YO thank you so much for your comments. It really, really brightens my day considerably to know people are enjoying my lame attempt at writing this. i'm also amazed that checkmatey is enjoying my story because THEIR LEBRON/STEPH FICS ARE AMAZING and hit all my kinks. :) 
> 
> I also forgot to mention that in this fic universe Steph and Lebron are both not married!!
> 
> I'm also finding it hard to end every chapter in a way that's not awkward and dramatic so please bear with me there. ENJOY!!!

What the fuck is he _doin’_ here?

Even with as much as he’s drunk, the question pounds at Lebron’s brain. Comes through clear and strong. Because what he should be doing right now is getting trashed out of his damn mind with his team, staying up till sunrise before flying back to Cleveland for the parade. Because _they won._

They won, and Lebron still can’t fuckin’ believe it. They won, and part of him feels stuck on that nasty-ass court, forehead pressed to the floor, sobbing, cameras all around. 

They won the fucking finals and he decided to come to Steph Curry’s hotel room. 

He didn’t tell nobody, just slipped out with a quiet word to Lue and a couple of the guys. It was almost too easy to get Curry’s room number from security, told them some bullshit about wanting to talk over the game and they sold the guy out for a couple of autographs. It might end up in some tabloid tomorrow - “Lebron’s secret meeting with Steph” - but they ain’t got proof. 

And so he’s here. Watching Curry pour them both generous helping of the vodka he’d brought, still numb with shock that Curry was here, that he opened the door, that he actually let Lebron inside. 

Inside. Bad word choice. He is too damn _drunk_ for his mind right now. 

Lebron’s lucky his skin doesn’t betray him like Curry’s. Though, if he’s being sharply, brutally honest with himself, he fuckin’ loves the way Curry’s face goes scarlet whenever he’s riled up, the way his mouth hangs open just a little, eyes scrunched up in indignation. 

Lebron needs a drink. His fourth, or fourteenth, or somewhere in between.

“What were you up to?” he asks after his first sip. His throat barely even burns anymore, and he should take it easy, because even at his height and weight he does stupid things when he’s drunk.

Curry looks around the room. “Uh, you know,” he says, gestures at the TV. “Watching some shit. Decompressing.”

“What kind of shit?” Lebron asks, and Curry, to his surprise, flushes. 

“Ah, just some on-demand movie.” Curry’s roving eyes get stuck on something behind Lebron and if Lebron weren’t watching him closely he’d miss the way they flash in alarm.

Lebron turns and doesn’t see anything except a messy unmade bed. Beside it, the lamp on the nightstand, a bottle of water, and a bottle of -

There wouldn’t be any reason Curry would need shampoo watching a damn movie. 

And he’d been shirtless when he opened the door, Lebron remembers, hand tightening around his glass at the thought. Shirtless, and slightly flushed. 

Curry’s even redder when Lebron turns back to him. He shrugs his shoulders in a defiant gesture that brings to mind kids ten years younger, lips pressed into a line. “You already know what I like,” he mutters. 

Jesus Christ. Lebron was just thinking he’d been jacking off, taking advantage of the room’s amenities to expedite the process. But now Lebron’s got this image of Curry on his back, legs spread wide, fingers slicked up and -

“You mind if I sit?” He barely gets the words out before he sinks into the couch. Tries to keep it together, keep his face expressionless so he can’t make this any fuckin’ weirder than it already is. _You knew this would be fucked up_ , his mind tells him cruelly. _You wanted this._

Curry flops down into the armchair adjacent to him and stares moodily at the ground. “So what’s with the royal visit?” he asks. 

Panicked, Lebron tries to think of a normal reason he could be here. A normal thing to talk about. 

“You had a good game tonight,” he tries. 

Curry snorts, but there’s no amusement in it. “You must be some kind of shitfaced to think I want to talk about what happened tonight,” he says. Lebron meets his eyes for a split second and they’re cold and clear and badly hiding misery. Then Curry looks away. “Don’t you have somebody you wanna be with right now?”

The sad truth is that no, he doesn’t. “I broke up with my girlfriend before the season,” Lebron answers. 

“But you got groupies,” Curry says. 

There’s a question in his words that Lebron doesn’t know how to answer. “I’m not in the mood,” he says eventually. And then, because he’s got questions of his own, ones that won’t go away no matter how hard he tries to ignore them: “And you’ve got ‘em too. And all those girlfriends, the model and the singer -”

Curry cuts him off with a laugh. “All fake,” he says, and then he leans forward and stares intently at Lebron. “Is that how we’re gonna play this? Talking about women like you ain’t seen me getting fucked by a guy?”

“You could be -”

“I’m gay,” Curry says forcefully. Maybe he doesn’t mean to say it, because his face looks as surprised as Lebron’s when he leans back. After a moment, his expression settles back into neutral. “And before you ask, it is possible to only like dick and be good at basketball.”

“I didn’t fuckin’ say it wasn’t,” Lebron cuts in, pissed, letting Curry get under his skin like always. “Why d’you keep thinking I’m such an asshole?”

“Maybe it’s ‘cause you called me a pretty-faced fluke,” Curry shoots back. He shakes his head. “And everyone I’ve ever told has tried to explain it away, like it’s crazy that someone like me could be a _cocksucker -_ ”

“I’m bi,” Lebron says without thinking. It stems the heated flow of Curry’s words in an instant, and Lebron fidgets into the silence, hands feeling too big, body awkward in the presence of that truth. 

Curry’s mouth is wide open. “You,” he says faintly, and then assertively: “You're not.”

“I am,” Lebron says, confused by his reaction. 

“You’re straight,” Curry grinds out in response. “You fuck _women._ You like _women._ ”

_Why are you so mad?_ Lebron wants to ask, because he thought things would get easier after saying it, not harder. “I do,” he admits. “But I like - I like men, too. So, both.” Curry’s jaw is tight and his eyes are hard with incredulity, so Lebron continues. “It’s more 80-20,” he offers. “I only ever noticed a few guys growing up, and that kind of shit got you killed where I lived.” So he’d kept his eyes to himself and stuck to girls.

He would’ve been happy, probably, staying with women his whole life. But then Steph Curry falls on top of him and suddenly all those years of stifled want explode. For the past two days he's been itchy, hot, annoyed by how his mind circles back to Curry like it's on an endless loop. He played it off to the guys as nerves and tension, but it's different. 

He was fuckin’ fine before Curry came along. Now, suddenly he’s gotta deal with the thought that his constant irritated awareness of the guy has a different origin than just rivalry. That his occasional, ignorable appreciation of a guy has morphed into this shitstorm. 

“So, what,” Curry asks tensely into the silence, aggressive again, “You come here looking to experiment? Thought, hey, Curry’s a homo, he’d be down to fuck?” 

“I didn’t come here to -”

“It’s not gonna happen,” Curry interrupts. “Even if I did believe that this wasn’t a fuckin’ joke, I don’t fuck people I don’t _trust._ ”

That hurts more than it should, more than Lebron knows it should, but that hurt makes him angry anyway, makes his voice harsh. “You’re exactly who I thought you were,” he snaps. “An immature kid who thinks it’s all about him. I’m not attracted to you,” he lies, and maybe it sounds believable because a line appears between Curry's eyebrows. “I wouldn’t touch your selfish ass if you begged me to.”

“Good thing that’ll never happen, then,” Curry spits back, but he hunches in the chair, stares at the floor after speaking. 

For a few silent seconds Lebron allows himself to appreciate how badly this night has gone. 

He wasn’t expecting what Curry thought, wasn’t hoping Curry would spread his legs and fuckin' ask for Lebron’s dick after Lebron announced his sexuality. He wasn’t looking for a fuck when he came here - _but you’d want it,_ his mind says treacherously - he just wanted to talk. Wanted to apologize, for what he’d said the last time they’d talked. Maybe even for what he’d said on the court tonight, though Curry hadn’t mentioned it. 

And instead he’d ended up running his damn mouth again with nothing to show for it.

“You should go,” Steph says stiffly, and gets up. 

He waits pointedly by the door for Lebron, who pauses before walking out. 

Everything about this feels too final, too done. He dares to glance at Curry where he’s leaning, arms crossed, against the door. Lebron feels so conscious of their height difference, so conscious of how excruciatingly useless he is, looking down at Curry’s perfect poker face, dead and mean like a club bouncer. 

“I’m sorry,” he says softly, and then leaves, hoping he doesn’t remember a damn thing in the morning.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for the comments!!! glad to know you are enjoying. this is aggressively unrealistic, but i desperately wanted to find a way to insert my favorite dumb tropes into this story. :)

It's been two weeks and Steph gets the call.

Two weeks is, to be really fuckin' fair, a lifetime of vacation. Usually it's a day here or there, but there's always training, always practice, always press and new shit they think up for the players to do. Steph's barely got time to breathe most of the season.

After the shitshow that was the conference finals, he was looking at one month, thirty whole days, of rest. Of anything he damn well wanted.

Till the call.

"What exactly is a reality special," he asks his phone, lying on the bed next to him.

"I’m telling you, it's nothing.” The voice of his publicist - ironically also named Stef - blares through the tinny speaker. “Gonna be a piece of cake.”

"You always say that, and then I end up halfway across the country speaking to the farmer's association of America or some shit."

The phone chuckles. "It's a week, Steph," she says. "One week, you do a bunch of zany activities, get filmed doing ‘em, and they magically edit it into a special show that'll premiere in a few months."

His two remaining weeks of freedom are going up in flames before his eyes. "Man, I don't know -"

"It's better than you moping around for another two weeks," Stef cuts in bluntly. "You'll be paid. And all the proceeds go to benefit the special Olympics." Her voice takes on a sympathetic tone. "It'll take your mind off things."

Steph snorts. "And America's mind, huh."

He can hear her smile through the phone. "Not gonna lie, the opportunity to make people see you as the fun-loving goofball you are was too good to pass up." Pause. Steph counts the cracks in his ceiling, following the spider-thin lines with narrowed eyes. And then Stef says, "There is a _tiny_ catch."

Breathe out. Steph's calm. "Yeah?"

"It's not just you doing the show. It's a bunch of other people, all repping their sport. I think they've got Phelps, one of the Williams sisters, an ice-skater - high profile people."

"Just tell me they got Beckham and I’m in,” Steph jokes. “Seriously, Stef, what’s the catch?”

A blow of air from the phone. "Each sport has two reps. Like a pair. They're supposed to do everything together, work as a team in all the activities."

"Okay," Steph says slowly. Fourteen cracks, and his ceiling needs a new paint job. "So who's my teammate gonna be?"

"Lebron James," Stef says.

Given his luck he should've known. Should've guessed, that life would fuck him over again seeing as that's been its favorite _fucking_ hobby recently. Steph's neck is strangely warm, ears hot.

"There's no fuckin' way James agreed to that," he gets out at last.

He can see Stef shrug. "His agent already confirmed." 

What the actual fuck. "And he knows it's me?" Steph asks.

"As far as I know, he’s fully aware," Stef tells him soothingly, and then her tone turns businesslike. “I'm emailing you your plane ticket and hotel reservation. No babysitting on this one. And for the love of God, try to be gracious. It's for a good cause, and I get enough headaches without you getting yourself kicked off a show that’s for _charity._ "

"I think I'll manage," Steph is able to shoot back, and hangs up after a promise to do what he's told.

He lays there, shell-shocked. Lebron James. The guy who, two weeks ago, waltzed into Steph's suite and announced he was fucking _not straight._

Who Steph then told he'd never fuck in a million years. _And Lebron said sorry,_ his brain reminds him, the memory like a slow-spreading poison. 

Should've fucking known, he thinks, burying his face in his pillow. The guy who destroys him on court and makes him turn into an absolute idiot off court, back to make his life unbearable again.  
It's gonna be different, though, he thinks, with a shiver of what might be nerves, might be anticipation. Lebron in off-season, relaxed, having fuckin' _fun._

And again: _what the fuck._

 

***

 

He arrives at the hotel around midnight thanks to an excruciatingly delayed flight. That means he doesn't get mobbed when he steps into the lobby with his sad duffel bag. Means he's able to pretend he's a normal human being for a while, though he thinks it's likely that the producers of the show told the staff to treat the players normally. No autographs or tears, just professionalism.

Steph's really glad for it. Till the guy checking him in picks up the phone and, after a brief silence, says, "Mr. Curry has arrived."

"Who was that?" he asks, because it sounded sinister as fuck and Mr. Curry is his dad, not him.

The clerk looks up. "Mr. James requested to be let know when you arrived, sir," he says.

"Oh," Steph says elegantly. "So he's, uh. He's here already?"

"Yes, sir." The clerk hands him his room key. "I've been instructed to tell you that the shooting schedule will begin at 10am tomorrow. Someone will be at your door with breakfast at 9."

"Thanks," Steph manages, and off he goes. 

The trip up to the fourth floor is really quiet. Steph’s looking forward to one last night of peace, one night to regroup and get his mind right before whatever this is starts. He’s got nine hours to get ready to stand in front of Lebron and not make an absolute fool outta himself. 

He slides his key into the slot and pulls open the door, closes it tiredly behind him. Flicks on a light switch and turns, ready to see the familiar sight of a hotel room. Home sweet home.

‘Cept he doesn’t expect to see Lebron fucking James sit up in bed - _Steph’s_ bed - rubbing a large hand over his eyes and squinting at Steph in the light. 

Steph stumbles back in shock. “What the fuck, man,” he chokes out. After a second he looks down at his room key to check that he hasn’t gotten the wrong room. 

Nah, this is 404. He looks up, tries to keep his voice light. “You’re in my room, dude,” he says.

It’s only then, when Lebron sits up fully, that he realizes Lebron’s shirtless. 

“They didn’t tell you?” Lebron asks, voice lower than usual, rough with sleep. He smirks at Steph. “We’re sharing.”

Steph’s only barely managing to keep his eyes on Lebron’s face and firmly off the expanse of dark, inked skin exposed by the harsh light. “ _Why?_ ” 

“Part of the schtick.” Lebron looks at the bed pointedly. “This, though, was just a mistake.”

Steph doesn’t get it until he realizes that there’s only one bed in the room. 

Shit. 

“I know it’s a queen, so you should probably take it,” Lebron continues. 

Steph forces a laugh. “Yeah, yeah,” he says distractedly. “You can take it tonight. I’ll just -” he glances around “- take the floor.” Anything to get this nightmare done. 

But Lebron, for some reason, doesn’t back down. “It’s a big bed, we can share,” he says calmly, expressionlessly. Steph gapes at him. 

“No offense, but I’d rather take the floor,” he says. 

That, for some reason, seems to tick Lebron off. “There some reason you don’t wanna share a bed with me?” he asks. His tone is light but there’s something hidden in his voice, something buried deep under his calm mask. 

Something Steph just doesn’t get. Because of course he doesn’t wanna share a bed with Lebron, and he thought Lebron would feel the same fuckin’ way. Steph’s _gay_. Lebron’s - well, Steph still isn’t sure he believes it, but even still - they both like guys. Sleeping together, even just sleeping, is dangerous. 

Lebron, even loose and relaxed from sleep, is dangerous, dark eyes and careful hands a reminder of that. 

This is a challenge. Steph doesn’t know what it means, but he ain’t gonna start this week by backing down. 

He squares his shoulders. “You know what,” he says slowly. “I think my back could use something softer.” He drops his bag and pulls out his toothbrush and some shorts. “Don’t wait up,” he says, gestures with the toothbrush, and escapes into the bathroom.

Once inside Steph breathes, in and out, and looks in the mirror. He doesn’t look rattled on the outside, which is amazing, because he’s fucking panicking. 

He doesn’t hear anything from outside as he brushes his teeth and pulls on his shorts. Keeps his mind rigidly off the idea that Lebron could prefer sleeping commando. 

This is dangerous, he thinks, sliding under the covers in the darkness. He can make out the shape of Lebron two feet in front of him, on his side with his broad back to Steph. Lebron’s doing a fine job of faking sleep, but Steph’s nervous, on edge. For good fucking reason. 

This is dangerous, he thinks again, and thinks it like a mantra until he falls asleep.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been so long and for that i apologize profusely. been very busy. enjoy! and thanks again for comments n kudos.

Steph wakes up feeling the most comfortable he’s felt in ages. It’s beautiful, really: silky sheets, soft pillow, a firm press of warmth hugging along his body like the best kind of blanket. He wriggles back a bit, still hazy with sleep and heat and comfort. 

Oh yeah, and _that._ The hardness against his ass that spells d-i-c-k. 

Steph can’t remember the last time he woke up with someone in his bed holding him like this, so he makes an appreciative sound into the pillow, presses back into whoever he’s ended up with this time. 

The hand around his waist tightens, and then: lips on the back of his neck, light, just brushing the skin. Steph relaxes in wordless contentment, his own dick stirring in record time. This is the closest he’s gotten to happiness in a while. This is nice.

Then he remembers where he is and it gets not nice real fast. 

It’s not like he elbows Lebron in the face trying to get away. His eyes go wide and he freezes, fully, horrible awake. 

After a second the mouth draws back from his neck. In another second Lebron jerks his arm off of Steph’s body and moves his body away from Steph’s on the bed. 

Silence. 

“I know you’re awake,” comes Lebron’s voice over Steph’s shoulder. He sounds like gravel, rough and grinding. 

_Does he think I wanted that?_ Steph wonders suddenly. Flushes, remembering how he just rubbed up against the guy like some fake whore. He coughs a little before replying. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I was pretty knocked out, though.” He closes his eyes like it’ll sap the embarrassment from the next words. “Didn’t know what I was doing. Sorry, man.”

The quiet is ominous, but then: "Me neither," Lebron says, so soft Steph can barely hear. 

After a few seconds Steph dares a glance over his shoulder. Lebron’s sitting on the side of the bed, back to Steph, elbows on his knees and head in his hands. For a crazy instant Steph wants to put his hands on Lebron’s back, knead out the tension bunching his muscles and make him fucking _relax._

But that’s crazy. _And hey,_ he thinks with a sick thrill in his stomach, _you mighta been pushing your ass back but his dick was there to meet you_. Even though it was probably just morning wood, warm bodies, natural reactions. 

He’s about to stutter some of that out, make Lebron feel less awkward, when Lebron cuts him off. 

“We ain’t talkin’ about this,” he says decisively, and then gets up and finally turns to Steph. It feels stupid: Lebron standing in low slung athletic shorts, Steph still tangled in the sheets. 

Lebron looks away. “Imma shower,” he clips out.

Once he disappears into the bathroom Steph lets out a long sigh muffled in the pillow. Jesus motherfuckin’ Christ. This is gonna drive him insane, all these complicated looks Lebron gives him, like he’s supposed to magically understand what the fuck personal crisis Lebron is suffering. Steph’s not a shrink; he doesn’t relate to people well, only basketballs. Served him pretty well so far. Hasn’t stopped him from keeping up a good sex life either. Till now.

He throws all his self-pity to the side and gets out of bed. Scrunches his eyes shut and stretches, arms up, feels the tension bleed out. 

Till he opens his eyes and finds Lebron standing in front of him. 

The guy looks shell-shocked and Steph is briefly exasperated, because what now? Can’t the guy take a fucking shower without dying of drama?

And then he follows the line of Lebron’s eyes straight down to his dick. Which is still standing at attention. 

Steph swallows and doesn’t know what to say to Lebron’s expression. Wants to say, _what? You thought I didn’t like it? You disgusted that my faggot ass liked feeling dick all over it?_

But he’s too much of a coward to say anything. And after a moment Lebron shakes his head, jerks his eyes off Steph’s crotch. “Forgot my razor,” he says hoarsely. 

Steph watches him disappear into the bathroom again and tries to will his body temperature back to normal. 

*******

It’s pretty damn cool, whatever this show is. He never thought he’d be eating breakfast with Missy Franklin sitting right next to him, Michael Phelps on the other side. Serena Williams and Andre Agassi are across from him. 

Steph’s met a ton of celebrities, artists, actors, even politicians. But there’s a connection between two people who play sports for a living. There’s the same need to make sure your body, your most important asset, is the best it can be. There’s the same pressure, from coaches, from the media, from yourself. They’re all more or less equals around the table. Steph, surprisingly, relaxes. 

Probably helps that Lebron is nowhere near him.

Steph finds himself making small talk with Phelps, who’s a great guy, all mellow with a generous helping of friendly smiles. They talk about Rio, all the shit that’s going down pre-Olympics. It’s easy and simple and and Steph learns a lot about the training Phelps puts himself through, which is intense, to say the least. Steph thanks his lucky stars he’s in off-season. 

He can’t help noticing, though, that Lebron’s getting pretty friendly with Serena. It’s fine, like, Steph can’t blame him - he’s kind of jealous he didn’t get to sit next to her - but still, seeing Lebron grinning, easygoing, making normal conversation like a normal human being, is fucking irritating. ‘Cause apparently he can’t do that with Steph, has always gotta make it known that he thinks Steph is dirt. Annoying dirt that won’t come off no matter how hard you scrub.

Steph excuses himself to get another bagel. He’s waiting for it to pop out of the toaster when he senses Lebron to his side. So he turns. 

“Hey, man,” he tries tentatively. 

“Hey,” Lebron says, pouring himself another cup of coffee. When he’s finished he stands there, stirring in milk and some of that fake sugar shit. Steph is about to ask something stupid about his breakfast because the silence is awkward and tense but then Lebron asks, “So that’s your type? White guys?”

Steph’s absolutely at a loss until Lebron gestures with his cup over to where Phelps is sitting. And then Steph remembers that night, falling out of the closet, Lebron and him and Klay standing there like dumbfucks. 

“Klay ain’t white,” he manages finally. “His dad’s from the Caribbean.”

The look Lebron gives him is unimpressed, but it’s the first time he’s actually looked at Steph since that morning, since all that shit. Steph searches his eyes, dark and intent on his, and feels something like relief. 

It makes him say, stupidly, “I like melanin.”

His cheeks get red in record time, made worse when Lebron, after a slow beat, just smirks. 

And then, suddenly, Lebron is leaning towards him, stops when his mouth is next to Steph’s ear. 

“Good boy,” Steph hears, and blood is rushing into his ears, mind struck blank. 

The next second Lebron’s straighening up like he just said good morning, expression pleasant and polite. And then he’s going back to breakfast. 

Leaving Steph like an idiot, mouth hanging open, his neck still warm. _Good boy._

The toaster dings.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh damn...a year and a half...i'm so sorry!!! Life got in the way!!! I do really love all of y'all and all your comments are amazing. I really don't deserve you all. So polite and appreciative. Anyway, here's another chapter!!! Supremely ridiculous fun with your fave ballers. I foresee updating again soon, in a few days at most, and finishing it in the next week. :)))))

After breakfast, Lebron and the others get shuffled off to their first group challenge in this fucked up reality show he signed up for. They get put in teams of two, and Lebron gets paired with Phelps, of all people. They’re gonna be baking partners. Making a cake together. The hosts of the show have decked out a room in the hotel with personal mini-kitchens for the teams. 

Phelps is friendly. When they get to their table, he claps Lebron on the shoulder and grins. “Well, I’m gonna fuck this up. You much of a cook, dude?” 

“Nah,” Lebron says. “I mostly stick to spaghetti.”

Leaning down, Phelps grabs the instruction sheet for the challenge. Around them, the four other celebrity pairs are reading it over, making small talk. Curry and Agassi are in front of them. Curry’s got his hands in the pockets of his sweats, grinning at the table while Agassi reads off the directions.

Lebron’s so fucking lucky he and Curry were split up for this thing. He doesn’t know how he could act normal around Curry. Jesus _Christ._ After humping his ass this morning, Lebron couldn’t help trying to rile him up even more. Good fuckin’ _boy._ He’s lucky Curry didn’t knee him in the balls for that one. 

He does his best to be friendly back to Phelps, but the guy's cheerfulness grates on him, and Phelps is a fucking disaster at baking. Lebron couldn’t give less of a shit about winning the competition, but this white dude can’t even read the instructions well enough to put one cup of oil into the mix, not three. How has he won tens of Olympic medals without knowing how to make something more complicated than cereal? 

They start over and finally get their cake in the oven with an hour to spare. Now all that’s left is the frosting. Lebron lets his eyes wander over to Curry and Agassi, just in time to see Curry swipe his finger through their frosting - vanilla cream - and stick his finger into his mouth. 

Jesus motherfucking Christ. Lebron looks for too long, his eyes caught by the way Curry’s lips suck on that one finger. Curry has to realize how obscene it is, has to know what he looks like - 

And then Curry’s eyes are on his, and Curry looks - for fuck’s sake, he looks like a kid who’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, the beginnings of a blush on his cheeks. Eyes locked on Lebron's, Curry slides his finger out. 

Then Agassi asks him something, and Curry looks away. Lebron exhales loudly. 

“I think it’s doing well,” Phelps says, crouched down in front of the oven. He straightens up and notices where Lebron’s looking. “Aw, they’re already frosting theirs?”

By the time Lebron and Phelps get their cake out, there’s only twenty minutes left on the clock. While they’re frosting it, Phelps says, “Steph seems like a great guy.” 

_Keep his name out of your mouth_ , Lebron thinks sharply, without any fucking reason to. “Yeah, he’s not bad,” he says evenly. 

“You guys get to hang out much? Off the court, you know?” 

Lebron really wishes Phelps would stop being so goddamn friendly. “Not really," he says. "Maybe if we played together.” 

Phelps chuckles. “Dude, I don’t think the NBA could handle you guys being on the same team.”

“Yeah,” Lebron says, eyes drawn back to Curry’s back. “That would be explosive.”

 

They come in a hot last in the challenge. Lebron’s not too beat up about it. Phelps just laughs through the whole judging time, and Lebron goes with it, the whole sports guy can’t bake schtick. He can’t believe people are gonna watch this crap, but he’s damn well going to make sure that he comes across as a good guy in it. None of that fake edited reality drama. 

He really hopes the cameras didn’t catch him staring at Curry’s mouth. Or his shoulders, or his back. Or, Jesus Christ, his ass. Lebron had thought the white Warriors shorts were bad enough - now, Curry's ass looks round and tight in his gray sweatpants. 

Ledecky and Williams come in first. Their cake is beautiful, frosting evenly applied, and they’ve even made some kind of edible flowers arranged on it. 

After the judging is over, they do wrap up shots, smiling with their cakes, shaking hands, making quips. It’s already five o’clock, and all Lebron wants is a drink. 

“Good work today, everybody!” the host, some happy-go-lucky Midwestern white guy, shouts. “You’re all off the hook until tomorrow morning, so go and rest up.”

Lebron turns to say goodbye to Phelps. “Better luck next time, man.”

Phelps laughs. “If it’s more stuff in the kitchen, I’m not gonna get any better.” And then he adds, “Hey, dude, some of us are gonna hit up this bar my friend owns downtown, if you’re interested.”

Lebron pretends to consider it for a second. “Any other time, I’d be all over that,” he says, forcing regret into his voice. “But I’m bombed from jet lag, man. You all enjoy.”

“I got you, dude,” Phelps says, and turns away. Lebron almost pulls him back to ask if Curry’s going with them, but that would be too much. Way too much, and Lebron needs to get his fucking mind off Curry as soon as fucking possible. 

When he gets to the room, the shower’s on and Curry’s suitcase is open. Lebron closes the door louder than he should - hey, he wants to let the guy know he’s there. Wants to make sure Curry doesn’t come out naked, all firm, tan skin. Doesn't want him to get shocked when he sees Lebron on the bed, eyes go wide, mouth drop open. 

Lebron definitely doesn’t want that. 

He turns on the TV to distract himself from the sound of running water. CNN, where they’re talking about some bullshit about the 2016 election. Lebron forces himself to focus on the screen. 

A few minutes later, the water stops. Curry steps out, and Lebron lets himself glance over for a split second - only polite - and says, “Hey, man.” 

“Hey,” Curry says, and Lebron moves his gaze firmly back onto the screen. 

Curry’s got his towel slung around his hips. Normal, then. It’s so normal. As if they were in a locker room. Curry crosses the room and squats in front of his suitcase, pulls out some clothes and goes back into the bathroom. 

Lebron breathes out.

When Curry emerges again, he looks - good. As in, going out good. As in, long sleeved black dress shirt, unbuttoned just enough to give a peek at the skin of his chest. As in, dark jeans that fit his legs too well for Lebron’s taste. Lebron is, to put it concisely, fucked. 

Lebron makes sure his voice is casual before he speaks. “Going out with Phelps?” 

“Not with Phelps,” Curry shoots back, standing over his suitcase with his back to Lebron. A few seconds later, Lebron gets a whiff of something musky, spicy. 

“Are you putting on cologne?” 

“Sure as hell ain’t your business, but yeah.” 

Lebron looks at Curry’s back. Where the fuck is he going? His eyes drop to Curry’s ass, which looks sinful in those jeans. He looks like he’s going out to get fucked. The thought has Lebron’s head spinning. 

“Klay in town?” he asks, and he meant it to sound casual, but it sounds sharp and needy to his ears. 

Curry shoots him a glare over his shoulder. “Just a friend.” 

“Great,” Lebron says. “I guess I’ll come with you, then.” He swings himself off the bed, enjoying the look of horror on Curry’s face. 

“You can’t come,” Curry says. 

“Why not?” Lebron crosses his arms over his chest. “You’re just going out with a friend. Bringing a friend isn’t weird. Unless,” he raises his eyebrows, “they’re more than a friend.”

“You’re not my friend,” Curry retorts. “And he’s not - we’re not - “

“Yeah, whatever,” Lebron says, smirking. And he should stop there, but he can’t stop talking. “Don’t bring him back here. I’ve already heard what you sound like getting fucked.”

Jesus Christ. Curry stares at him. Lebron wishes he could tape his goddamn mouth shut, or find a way to fucking _filter,_ for fuck’s sake. 

“Fine,” Curry spits. “You can come. I’m not - you think I’m some kind of man whore, but I’m -”

“You’re not a whore, you just like getting fucked,” Lebron says before he can stop himself. 

“Whatever,” Curry says. His face is red. “I’m leaving in five. Come if you want. I’ll be downstairs.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao @ me and this ridiculous plotline :))))  
> thanks to everyone who commented and said that they were happy i updated // enjoy the story!!! I love feedback and y'all are too kind. <3

Steph’s been scrolling through his Twitter feed for the past five minutes without really seeing anything. He’s antsy, tapping his foot on the lobby carpet, hunched over so fewer people will notice him. 

“Alright, ready to go,” a voice rumbles above him. 

Lebron’s six feet and eight inches look a lot bigger from where Steph is sitting, looking up. While Steph is in dark colors, Lebron’s chosen a light blue collared shirt and slim fitting khakis. The clothes accent the power of his body, the shift of muscles hidden underneath. 

Steph’s staring. He shouldn’t give the asshole the satisfaction. 

“I called the uber,” Steph says, and stands. “Let’s wait outside.”

He doesn’t wait for a response before pushing past Lebron, opening the door into the evening air. The temperature is beautiful, and Steph closes his eyes for a second to just _feel_ the brush of the breeze across his skin. 

When the car arrives, Steph slides into the backseat, figuring Lebron will take the front. He groans internally when the opposite happens, Lebron folding himself into the seat to his right. 

“So, who’s this friend?” Lebron asks after a minute of silence. 

Steph lets himself glance over. Lebron looks ridiculously big in the tiny Prius, knees hitting the seat in front of him, hands clasped between his legs. Steph looks back to his window. “Name’s Nick Hopper. He was a Wildcat.”

“You played together?” Lebron sounds surprised. 

“Yeah,” Steph says. “But he broke his ankle after my freshman year. They messed up the surgery and he never played again.” 

They hadn’t been close. But Nick kept in touch, and wasn’t too annoying about it, only sending him quick birthday texts and congrats when Steph started as a Warrior, got MVP and all that. Steph had hesitated when shooting off the text - _hey man, in town for a few days, want to get a drink?_ \- but Nick had responded fast, and suggested a place. 

This close, Steph could smell the cologne Lebron must have put on - something deep and woodsy. 

_Snap the fuck out of it,_ he thinks. 

When they enter the bar, Steph spots Nick at the bar counter and steps up, claps him on the shoulder. “Hey, dude,” he says, smiling. Lebron’s hovering behind him.

“Steph!” Nick turns and clasps Steph’s hand in his, pulling him in for a half-hug. “It’s been a minute, man.” His eyes wander behind Steph. “Holy shit, you brought Lebron _James_?”

“Hope you don’t mind me tagging along,” Lebron says.

“Of course not,” Nick says. “Shit, it’s my dream come true. What can I get you both? Beers on me.”

Half an hour later, Steph has to admit it’s not going horribly. Nick is cool, a big fan without being suffocating, knowledgeable about pretty much everything. He’s cute, too: Steph would be blind not to notice how well he’s kept in shape since college. 

Steph’s gotta admit, he did shoot off that text with some hope of something happening between them tonight. Anything, to be honest. Steph’s always used fucking as a way to manage stress, and he sure as hell wasn’t gonna masturbate in the room he’s sharing with Lebron James. He’d thought maybe he could blow Nick in the bathroom, fuck in his car or even in his apartment. Something quick to get the edge off. 

But of course, Lebron had to get right in his head and ruin it all. 

_You invited him,_ his brain reminds him. 

They’re not attracting as much attention as Steph was afraid of. In fact, nobody’s really giving them a second look, except a few women at the end of the bar who keep throwing looks over at Lebron. 

Lebron’s still tuned in to the conversation, but Steph can tell he’s enjoying the attention by the way he keeps grinning while he talks, keeps glancing over at the women. Steph’s not surprised. He’s got groupies from every state and a bunch of countries. Why wouldn’t he enjoy it?

One of them must have done something, because Lebron stands up and places his hand on Steph’s back, warm and weighty. Steph fights the urge to shiver. “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me,” he says. “I’m gonna say hello to some new friends.”

Steph watches him walk over with a burning feeling in his stomach that he decides is anger. Lebron fucked up his night just to ditch for whoever throws him attention? Fuck that shit. 

“Man, you think he knows this is a gay bar?” Nick’s voice breaks Steph out of his thoughts.

“It’s a _what_?”

Nick laughs. “Dude, have you not noticed the many men and women making out in here?”

In fact, Steph had not. He’d been focused on other things, to be fair - the press of Lebron’s thigh into his when he shifted on his stool, the rumble of Lebron’s laugh, and the way his huge hands wrapped around his beer. 

But now, looking around, Steph notices that there are a lot of women pressed close, a lot of guys dancing together, flirting and touching and kissing. 

“Oh my god,” Steph breathes. He brought Lebron James to a gay bar. 

Chuckling, Nick hits his shoulder. “Hey, James isn’t a homophobe, don’t worry.” At Steph’s puzzled stare, he adds, “He posts pro-LGBT stuff on Twitter and Instagram sometimes. He’s a good dude.” Before Steph can reply, Nick leans over close to Steph’s ear. “Hey, don’t worry,” Nick whispers. His breath is hot and damp on Steph’s skin, and Steph resists the urge to twitch away. “We’ve got some more time to ourselves this way.”

Steph turns to face him then, thinking he’ll make some space between the two of them so he can laugh it off, make it clear that he’s not interested, not tonight. He should be fucking _angry,_ because he _was_ interested, he really fucking was, except then Lebron started talking about him getting fucked, and all of Steph’s rational thoughts went out the window.

Steph has time to think all of this while he turns to face Nick, but it’s a mistake, because then Nick’s hand comes up to cup Steph’s cheek and his lips are on Steph’s. Steph lets it happen. Nick’s an okay kisser, it’s just. Steph doesn’t feel a thing, just a mouth squished on top of his, beer breath hitting his nose. 

Eventually it ends. When it does, Steph smiles awkwardly and slips off his stool. “I’m gonna hit the restroom,” he says. 

Nick is pretty tipsy. Steph can tell, because he just grins lazily back and salutes. “Hurry back,” he says.

In the bathroom, Steph pisses and scrubs at his mouth and teeth with a finger. Nasty fucking beer breath and drunk drool. He freezes for a second, remembering Lebron. Had he seen anything? Fucker probably already told his new friends how Steph was begging for a fuck. They probably all watched him. Fucking -

He needs some air. Luckily the bathroom’s right next to a back entrance that leads to an alleyway next to the bar. Steph leans against the brick wall and closes his eyes. He breathes in, out, in, out, for a count of ten, then twenty, then thirty. 

On thirty-five, Steph’s yanked out of his calm by a body that crowds him up against the wall. His eyes split open and it’s Lebron, of course it’s Lebron, who pushes Steph up against the brick and looks _mad_. 

“What the fuck, James?”

“You enjoy that?” Lebron spits back. 

“Enjoy what?” Pinned like this, Steph doesn’t trust himself. The heat of Lebron’s body is - it’s fucking _dangerous,_ , that’s what it is, the way it makes Steph feel light-headed. It doesn’t help how big Lebron is, how Steph can feel him everywhere. Lebron’s eyes are dark and impossible to read. “Enjoy what?” Steph says again. 

“You let that motherfucker touch you,” Lebron says in answer. He pushes harder against Steph, arms planted to either side of Steph’s head. “Did you like it?”

Against his will, Steph’s eyes drop to Lebron’s mouth. He can’t help it; they’re too close, and Steph is human, and he _needs_ -

Lebron notices. He moves one hand from the wall to cup Steph’s cheek, right where Nick’s hand had been, only Lebron’s hand feels warm and big, like he’s holding Steph like he’s fragile. 

Lebron’s eyes flick down to Steph’s mouth and Steph feels that burning again, molten heat in his stomach. Steph’s lips part involuntarily. 

“Jesus Christ,” Lebron says. He sounds wrecked. “Do you want it?” he asks, gaze darting between Steph’s mouth and eyes. “Tell me.”

“Yeah,” Steph chokes out. “Yeah, please -”

Lebron’s kissing him hungrily then, both hands now cupping Steph’s face, his huge body pressing Steph into the wall. It’s too much and not enough all at once, and Steph feels like he’s gonna melt into the ground. Lebron kisses like he’s going to _destroy_ Steph, gonna turn him into some stuttering mess who can’t remember his fucking name. His tongue is in Steph’s mouth and it’s so fucking dirty, it’s messy, and if this is how Lebron fucks, Steph is not gonna survive it. 

As soon as Lebron draws away Steph feels like his skin is on fire. Lebron must read his discomfort because he steps back, leaving Steph to sag against the wall like he can barely stand. 

Lebron’s eyes are pinning Steph to the wall and Steph can’t stop looking back. They’re both breathing hard, and Lebron looks like he’s about to - well, he still looks angry, like he wants to fight, wants to punch someone in the mouth and throw them to the ground. He looks dangerous. Steph can’t look at him anymore, so he stares at the ground. 

“I’m calling a ride to the hotel,” Lebron says finally. His voice is like gravel. “Come if you want.”

He leaves then, goes back inside and leaves Steph in the empty alleyway to slide down the wall, trembling, and sit on his hands.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU FOR COMMENTING/KUDOING ah  
> y'all see the game yesterday like [eyes emoji] im a warriors fan but also lebron is fuckin legend i was also watching them the whole time and i think my kink is lebron blocking steph's shots ha ha ha  
> and steph's yellow sneakers were cool too lol  
> any way!! sorry for the short chapter!!! <3 u all.

_Look, man, I was just -_

_Look, I’m sorry about that, I’m -_

_I’m drunk as fuck, it didn’t mean nothing._

_We can just forget it, alright?_

Lebron tries each one out in his head while he waits for the ride. The problem is, none of it’s really fucking true. Yeah, he’s had a few too many, but not enough to fuckin’ follow Steph out the back door of some lowlife bar, fuckin’ _grab_ the guy like Lebron wants to throw hands, right there, right then. 

Not near drunk enough to shove him up against the wall and -

A car pulls up outside the bar and its license plate is right, but there’s still no sign of Steph. Lebron isn’t sure if he’s happy about that. He should be - should be relieved that Steph hasn’t followed him out front, wanting to finish what they started. Whether that was gonna be a violent something or something a little different - 

He cuts that thought off right where it starts. 

The thing is, though, Lebron asked him if he wanted it, and Steph said _yes._ Lebron’s still sporting a semi ‘cause of the way he said it, too, voice wrecked, like Lebron had him all fucked up. And the way his eyes looked, half-lidded, the stupid fringe of his eyelashes brushing against his skin when he blinked, the liquid clearness of his big eyes. Lebron was so fuckin’ gone even before that and then Steph had to _look_ at him like that. What the fuck was Lebron supposed to do?

And it felt a whole lot like Steph liked the way Lebron kissed him, the way his body melted against the fuckin’ wall, pretending like he was all soft and easy and warm instead of the mouthy, _difficult_ little kid Lebron knows he is. 

Lebron gives up on Steph and gets into the front seat of the car. The driver barely looks at him. He’s about to pull away when Lebron looks to the right, one last time, and sees Steph.

“Hey, man, hold on for a sec,” Lebron says. He rolls down the window and waves at Steph, hoping he looks close to normal. “Yo, get in if you want.” Steph hesitates for a moment, glances back at the entrance to the bar. Lebron pushes down an irrational spike of anger. “We ain’t got all day.”

At that, Steph scoffs and shakes his head, but he walks forward and gets into the car. “Thanks, man,” he says once he’s in. 

_How the fuck are we gonna play this?_ Lebron thinks, somewhat hysterically, as they pull onto the road. He resists the urge to steal a look at Steph through the side mirror. _Give me a fuckin’ sign, please._

Once they’re back at the hotel, the walk to their room is definitely in the top ten worst things Lebron has ever experienced. Steph’s next to him, so he can’t see what the fuck he’s thinking, and Lebron thinks through a hundred ways to break the silence without having the balls to say a damn thing. 

He remembers how stupid he was earlier - Jesus Christ, insisting he come along on Steph’s weird fuckin’ date. He'd thought that move made him smart or something. Damn, was he at least five levels of wrong on that. 

The lights click on automatically when they enter the room. Lebron doesn’t even have the courage to look Steph in the eye when he asks, “Want the bathroom?” He doesn’t wait for Steph to respond before he turns away and fumbles at the clothes in his suitcase. Anything to avoid looking at Steph. 

Looking at Steph, when they’re close, when they’re alone, has only ever led to major fuckups on Lebron’s part.

“James.”

At the sound of his name, Lebron can’t help jerking his head up. Steph stands with his arms crossed over his chest. His face - looks weird, red like he’s embarrassed, but set, lips pressed into a line and eyes hard. 

“What?” 

“You’re really gonna fuckin’ act like you didn’t shove your tongue down my throat, what, twenty minutes ago?” Steph snaps. 

Lebron straightens up so he can look down at Steph. “Look, man, I was just drunk -”

“Like hell that’s why,” Steph cuts in. Then, all of a sudden, he loses his intensity, drops his eyes and walks past Lebron towards the bed. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“Can’t do _what_ , exactly?” Lebron demands of his back.

And just like that, Steph’s mad again. “I don’t know,” Stephs bites out. He turns around and steps angrily toward Lebron. “Maybe the way you keep fuckin’ with me.” 

“Do tell." Lebron crosses his arms. 

This time it’s Steph who gets all up in Lebron’s space. “Don’t fuckin’ play dumb, man. Ever since you found me and Klay in that closet, you’ve had a hell of a need to fuck with my head. Telling me you were bi after game seven? Remember that?” 

With Steph this close, even though he’s furious, Lebron has a hard time thinking. “That’s true -”

“I don’t give a damn if it’s true,” Steph says angrily. “Then you agree to come be my partner on this stupid ass show, where we gotta sleep in a fuckin’ _bed_ together, where I wake up with your hardon practically up my ass, and you telling me I’m a good boy, and every time your excuse is, I didn’t mean it, I was just playin’, I was just -” Steph runs out of air. He stands there, gaze hot on Lebron, and breathes heavily. Then his eyes dip purposefully to Lebron’s mouth and he moves the tiniest bit closer, eyes daring Lebron step back. “You meant to kiss me back there. So be a man, and finish what you started, huh?”

Lebron is afraid to breath. All his bravado from earlier, all his blurry rage when he saw Hopper with his mouth on Steph’s, has been replaced with sharp sobriety. Even with that, Steph's hot breath on his skin feels electric, has him fucking _gone_. 

Still, Lebron hesitates. He wants, of course he fuckin’ _wants,_ to grab Steph by his face and do exactly what he did back there at the bar, except a lot slower and then a lot faster, with a lot more of his hands on Steph’s skin - 

Apparently he hesitates too long, because Steph surges forward the couple of inches left between them and kisses him for a long second. “You’re such an asshole,” Steph mumbles against his mouth. 

Lebron doesn’t mean to do it, really doesn’t, but he can’t help but nudge Steph’s lips over his again, slotting their mouths together so he can shut Steph up. His hands finds their way into Steph’s hair and Steph’s lips fall open, huffing out a short breath.

Steph’s hands are on his waist and Lebron suddenly feels a lot less confident.

“I’ve never done anything,” he grinds out slowly, pulling his head back. 

Steph pulls back too, hands slipping off Lebron’s hips. “With a guy, you mean?”

“Yeah.” 

“Well,” Steph steps back and Lebron immediately misses his presence, intoxicating as it was. Then Steph begins to unbutton his shirt and Lebron’s eyes lock on his hands, every flick of his fingers hinting at skin Lebron has fuckin’ seen before, he shouldn’t be getting so messed up over. “It’s a lot similar to being with a woman, y’know.” 

Steph finishes the buttons and shrugs off the shirt. His nipples are brown and peaked. The room is suddenly very hot. 

Gaze locked challengingly on Lebron, Steph moves his hands down to his jeans, and Lebron is extremely, utterly out of his league.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! More chapters to come, from Steph's POV as well. In case anyone was wondering, I didn't tag this as Klay/Steph because while they do have sex, the main pairing is and will be Lebron/Steph. :)


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